


i fall in love just a little, oh a little bit

by misslizanne



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-04
Updated: 2015-01-16
Packaged: 2018-03-05 07:12:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3110789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misslizanne/pseuds/misslizanne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Wait, did you just flirt with me?"</p><p>
"Have been for the past year, but thanks for noticing."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. something new

Every Saturday night, Emma gets ready for her shift at  _The Rabbit Hole_  and as if karma is trying to punish her for  _something_ , every Saturday night,  _he_  comes in.

The  _he_ in question is Killian Jones, local musician and playboy extraordinaire, a guitar player with vocals that could turn any female into practical mush. It’s been his gig for the past year or so, playing on a few, random nights before his band settled on Saturdays,  _her_  shift in fact (whether that was to bother her or not, she’s not sure, because while he’s a good moneymaker for the bar, he does nothing if not make her shift a miserable, busy hell).

She’s come to know his set list, what songs he’ll sing, which ones he’ll turn acoustic at the drop of a hat, which ones he’ll let Robin, his best mate, harmonize on. She’s even learned the words to his originals, humming along as she mixes drinks and pours beer from the tap. God, she even knows his drink order at this point ( _Rum, the good stuff, love_ ) and usually has it ready for him once he gets off the stage, because a happy entertainer makes for a happy audience, or some bullshit like that.

The few times she’s actually _talked_  to him in the past year, she’s learned his name, the fact that he’s from England, and that he and his band mates all met in college through a mutual friend. She knows he has an affinity for pirates ( _The Jolly Rogers_  as the band name isn’t exactly hiding the obsession) and knows he likes his women brunette or red-headed, and a little bit dense, if she’s being honest. 

His voice is kind though, and whenever he gets a chance to talk to her, he’ll ask her questions about herself, why she’s a bartender in some local joint such as this ( _You could be so much more, Swan_ , he said one night, after a particularly slow evening with an even slower crowd,  _So much more if you just admitted it to yourself_ ), where she’s from ( _Boston_ , she’d responded curtly before walking away to take the order of some group of twenty-somethings, getting their number for him before her shift was over if only to tease him, making him respond with  _I don’t think it was their number I was looking for_ ), and why a girl like her is single in a town like this ( _I don’t date,_ she’d responded, making his eyebrows raise in interest as he picked up drinks for his band, because how do you tell a practical stranger that you’ve been burned and burned badly and your heart is locked away to keep yourself safe).

She doesn’t really mind it that much, because she doesn’t give away enough information anyway to make herself seem interesting, and some bimbo in stilettos usually distracts him thereafter before he leaves the bar, girl in tow and she somewhat forgets about him amongst the hustle and bustle of the bar at midnight.

Tonight is no different. He’s already waved hello as he came in, asking her polite questions to pass the time ( _Anything exciting planned for after your shift?_ he’d wondered, and she smiled,  _No, just sitting here, listening to you and the same twenty songs I heard last week_ ), before he jumps right into his set, making girls swoon and guys cringe as he sings through the same songs, making her roll her eyes because he’s so predictable.

“One last number for you lot,” Killian mumbles into the microphone as his set winds down. “Our beloved bartender complains we never change the set. So here’s a new one for you,  _Emma Swan_!”

He winks in her direction, he freaking  _winks_  and she feels her cheeks blaze red as she stands there, guffawed look on her face. The guitar riffs vibrate through the bar and she can feel every female set of eyes in the place on her, daggers in each and every one of their gazes as she realizes it’s some song she was humming the other day, having heard it in the car on her way in.

And goddamnit, he freaking  _remembered_. The idiot  _remembered_ , if the cheeky smile he can’t stop shining towards her, dimples and all, is any indication.

The song, she recognizes, is the new Hozier track, and he croons the chorus easily along with David ( _I fall in love in just a little, oh a little bit every day with someone new_ ), making her clench her jaw just  _a little bit_ harder in frustration.

The glass she’s been mindlessly cleaning is now gripped tightly between her hands, and she feels his eyes burning into her, a slightly mischievous look in those deep blues that has anticipation pooling low in her belly and she wonders if this is what the other girls feel like before she shakes off the trance he’s placed her in.

He usually picks some girl in the audience, someone  _easy_ , staring at her through the entirety of his final song (she’s grown accustomed to his routine, and she knows it’s the reason half of these girls come here), but tonight his eyes are still dragging across her frame, his low baritone singing about feelings and one-night stands and  _love_  and she’s all about ready to leave because this is  _insane_.

He reaches the backend of the song, and part of her scoffs because it’s  _so true_ when it comes to him ( _Love with every stranger, the stranger the better_ ) because he’s a mindless flirt and he’s a  _playboy_  and he’s  _bad news_  and he’s actually trying his tricks out on  _her._  She prays to god and anyone else who will listen that he’s just pulling some sort of prank on her, that maybe the waitresses put him up to this, but then he tosses a kiss towards her, followed by another wink and she’s just about had enough.

She practically storms out, walking through the back, hoping one of the waitresses will take up some of the drink orders while she’s out. She props the door to the back alleyway, letting the crisp night air calm her senses because he was trying to  _hit_  on her, with  _music_  and doesn’t he know she’s smarter than that? She’s not like those girls he usually picks up, she’s  _not them_ and this is  _ridiculous_.

She doesn’t hear him come outside until he clears his throat. “I didn’t mean to offend you, love,” he says, making her jolt.

She turns quickly to see him, eyes wide, a playful smirk on his lips. “What the hell was  _that_?”

“I thought you quite liked our songs!” he protests, his lips quirking up into a full-out  _grin_. “And besides, you can’t blame a man for trying.”

“For trying  _what_?” she shouts, because she  _doesn’t get it_.

He saunters closer, reaching up to twirl a lock of her long blonde hair before he quotes the song he’d been singing earlier. “There’s quite an  _art_  to life’s distractions,” he begins, swaying a bit closer to her. “To somehow escape the burning  _wait_.”

“Stop it.”

She scoffs before he leans in, lips only inches from hers.

“Some like to imagine, love, the dark  _caress_  of someone else.”

And at that, she can’t contain it, she  _laughs_ , bursting out into a loud bout of giggles, having to back up and clutch her stomach because it’s too much and he’s trying too hard.

“W-wait,” she tries to stutter out, having to breathe deep before she asks. “Did you just  _flirt_  with me?”

His face looks adorably confused, eyebrows furrowed and she suddenly wants to walk back and smooth over the lines on his forehead with her thumbs, tell him it’s okay and it was a nice try, and she thinks he  _must_  be desperate, if he’s trying to end his night with  _her_.

“Have been for the past year, love,” he finally whispers in defeat, and his voice sounds so incredibly honest that her laughter dies off. “Thanks for finally noticing.”

He turns, obviously insulted by her reaction but she grabs his elbow before he can make it any further.

“Wait, seriously?”

He nods. “Aye, but you’re a tough one.” He scratches behind his ear, and it’s endearing and cute and he doesn’t look like the asshole her mind has crafted him to be.

“But what about all those girls?” Emma murmurs, slightly jealous because he’s still well,  _Killian_.

He sighs. “Something to quell the burning  _ache_.”

The way he says it makes her heart fall, and she can see the pain in his eyes (the pain that looks like  _hers_ ) before she steps forward, hand landing on his bicep. He shifts a little bit, body stiffening before relaxing in her grasp.

“Come on, hot shot,” she jokes and he finally cracks a smile, a nervous one but she’ll take it nonetheless. “Why don’t you come inside and try and flirt with me some more?”

His eyes light up at that as she waltzes past him, trying to sway her hips just a little bit more (she can flirt too, if they’re playing  _that_ game now).

“ _Swan_ ,” he practically growls, jogging to catch up with her. “I don’t think you’ll be able to handle it.”

Emma snorts. “I’ve seen all of your moves in the course of a year. I think I’ll be able to keep up.”

He slides in front of her before she can grab the propped door, his large, solid body hovering over her. He leans in, drops his mouth to her ear, his warm breath sending a shiver down her spine. “Oh,  _love_ , that wasn’t  _real_ flirting. I’ve been saving all of the good stuff for you.”


	2. i guess any thrill will do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little flashback...

He doesn’t know what it is about her, but he’s drawn to her, like a moth to a flame. She’s beautiful, all blonde hair and green eyes, yet with a little bit of a bite.

His band tells him not to bother, urges him to just move on and leave her be, lest they lose the gig but he just _can’t_.

So he talks to her every moment he can, tries to make her scoff, or roll her eyes, and sometimes, even  _smile_. And he tries not to seem like the creep he knows he is, he tries to look at her when he’s singing instead of the plethora of other women who can’t take their gazes off him (he tries and he fails, because she’s breathtaking and he fears he’ll forget the damn words to his songs if he looks a moment longer).

She has his drink waiting for him when he’s done with the set, and he asks her about why she’s single.

"So how is Mr. Swan?" he presses, and it’s not smooth, and it’s entirely horrible and he thinks she might toss his rum at his face or slap the cheesy grin off his lips.

But she smiles a little, and his heart nearly  _soars_. “I don’t date, Killian, if that’s what you’re asking.”

She continues to prepare the drinks for his band with practiced ease, David’s vodka cranberry, Robin’s Guinness and Kristoff’s gin and tonic, placing each one on to a tray for him to carry over.

He wants to grab her hand, wants to smooth over her pulse point, calm her jittery nerves (she looks like she wants to run with the indifferent attitude she shoots his way, and it makes him want to beg her to  _stay_ ).

But he doesn’t and he leaves, gets caught up in the band and some broad named Laura and forgets all about her until it’s three in the morning and there’s a hollow ache in his chest and regret lacing its way down his spine as the red-head beside him bloody snores like a freight train and he tries to sleep, only drifting off when a vision of gold and green and  _Emma_  finds its way into his dreams.


	3. oh to be alone with you

She’s not sure how it ended up like this (his couch, her fingernails scratching the back of his neck, his lips trailing down her jawline, her hips rolling against his, his hips thrusting up into hers) but it’s like fire and ice and _goddamn_  his mouth feels amazing on her skin and she can’t help but move a little impatiently above him.

She’s not thinking this through though.

Yes, he’s been flirting with her ever since the incident (the damn Hozier album seems to have found its way into his weekly repertoire, and it’s made her all hot and bothered and Saturday shifts are a whole new personal hell because of it). Yes, he’s only had eyes for her for a few weeks now, the other girls in the club mere pawns in a game he’s playing to get  _her_. Yes, his voice is like sin and his body is all hard lines to her soft curves. And yes, she hasn’t gotten laid in a  _long_ time so this feels like a rubber band snapping, an itch she just  _needs_ to scratch.

So if she scratches it with Killian, then  _sue_ her.

His hand finds its way to her ass, cupping it and rolling her against the ridge beneath his dark jeans, and she gasps into his mouth, surprised and wanting and J _esus freaking Christ_ , he isn’t even fair, this isn’t fair because she’s been here for all of three minutes and she’s already ready to snap.

“You like that?” he asks, voice hoarse and rough as both hands now squeeze her ass a little harder, his mouth nibbling at the place beneath her ear.

She moans, writhes a little desperately for more friction. “Yes,” she croaks out, mortified by how easily he’s rolled her into a panting mess.

(It started with a wink from the stage, and a roll of her eyes, and then it was close to closing time and he was still sipping on his second rum, asking  _Do you ever get a day off, Swan?_  She’d shaken her head before leaning across the bar, making the two brunettes eyeing him from her left groan with jealousy. She’d watched him shiver as her lips hovered over his ear, whispering  _Last call is at one. Stay for a bit?_  He’d only nodded, a little awestruck that she’d even invited him at all.)

He flips her onto the couch, pressing her into the cushions with his hips, and god he’s ready and hard against her thigh and she wants nothing more than to feel skin on skin and him inside her and their bodies moving in tandem.

It may be the alcohol still coursing through her veins, may be the warm feeling prickling her skin, or the anticipation pooling low in her belly, but she  _wants_ him, more than she’s ever wanted anything before.

She links her ankles behind his hips, tugging him in further, grinning when he grunts, completely lost to the rock of her hips into his. She pulls him down for a bruising kiss, searing his lips as  _hers_ because those other girls can go to fucking hell for all she cares.

Tonight it’s her turn to be the dense broad in his bed.

(The final stragglers made their way out as he closed the doors for her before turning, a slightly hopeful yet nervous look in his eyes.  _Need me to do anything?_  he’d asked and she took out two shot glasses, pouring both to the brim with whiskey.  _Drink, Jones_ , she’d commanded, making his eyebrow arch as he swaggered back to the bar.  _I do like it when a woman takes control_ , he’d murmured, tongue doing something obscene as he licked his lips. She tossed back the shot before he even had a chance to drink his own, taking two more as he tossed back his own.  _Need to catch up,_ she’d offered when he chuckled before he placed his glass down, silently asking for a refill.)

His fingers find their way under her sweater, calloused from playing the guitar, rough against her smooth skin. She works the damn stubborn buttons of his plaid button down, pushing it off his shoulders with force and failing because her hands feel clumsy and she’s freaking shaking with the anticipation of him and her and  _this_.

He sits back for a moment, shrugging it off for her as she leans up on her elbows, appreciatively studies the dusty color of his chest hair, the ridges of his abs, the firm biceps that lead down to his strong hands before he nods towards her sweater.

“Off with it,” he commands, and she obeys, sitting up and lifting her arms up, letting him lift the shirt off her frame.

His eyes roam her chest after he flings the sweater to the floor, thumbing at the blue lace covering her breasts (she’d never tell him, but she only bought it because it reminded her of  _him_ ), both hands cupping her breasts gently.

“Gods, Emma,” he whispers before pushing her back down, mouth claiming hers as his hands pull on her breasts, fingers pinching her nipples through the thin fabric, hips rutting leisurely into hers, making her run her fingers through his hair to anchor herself in something because this is too hot and they’re still wearing far too many clothes and he’s like sin incarnate and she can’t control herself.

(There was about a quarter of the whiskey bottle left, and they were both trashed at this point, and she knew she was going to have to pay for all the liquor they’d drank, but she can’t really find it in herself to care because he’d been looking at her with darkness in his eyes for about ten minutes now, gaze practically screaming  _I’d fuck you, if you let me_. It made her skin a little tingly, knowing she was having that sort of effect on him.  _You know, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re trying to get me drunk_ , he’d joked, as he took yet another shot. _Then stop accepting my advances_ , she teased back, making him chuckle.  _You are a hard woman to resist_ , he pushed, standing up and leaning over the bar counter. She still had that barrier between them, kept it that way since they’d closed up because she was afraid if she hadn’t, she’d have fucked him right there in the damn bar. _We’ll see if that statement holds true_ , she murmured, voice husky and low and inviting and before he could send an innuendo-laced quip back at her, she’d lunged forward, grabbing the damn chains around his neck and pulling him in for a kiss, bruising his lips and marking him as hers for the night.)

His hand roughly pulls the cups of her bra down, revealing her bare breasts to him. He grins, and it’s devilish and greedy and  _dirty_  and his mouth is hot when his tongue finally licks at her straining nipple, making her arch into him, begging him to continue.

She reaches behind herself awkwardly, unclasping the bra and haphazardly removing it from between them. He hums when she’s completely exposed to him, hands trailing down her hips and flicking the button of her work jeans open, hand dipping beneath the hem, wandering past the lace hugging her hips before his fingers find her, slick and warm and god, he just needs to touch her already.

“ _Good_ ,” she whimpers when his fingers finally slide between her folds, thumb rolling her clit in slow flicks. “ _So good_.”

“Yes,” he mumbles back, and then his fingers are inside her, thrusting up into her heat, making her roll her hips in restless circles. “I want to see you come for me, love,” he croons as he hovers above her, trailing kisses up and down her bare chest before settling on her pulse point, sucking a bruise there.

She’s burning everywhere, and she feels like she’s ready to burst as his fingers curl up into her, thumb circling roughly against her clit, his own hips rutting restlessly into the air before white-hot heat explodes throughout her body as her orgasm rolls through her in embarrassingly quick fashion, wave after wave as his fingers work her through it, mouth roaming her skin as she comes down from her high.

“Fuck,” she breathlessly mumbles before she’s pushing him up into a seated position.

She jumps off the couch, taking her jeans off, gesturing for him to do the same.

But his forehead furrows adorably (and godddamnit, he can’t be adorable now, he can’t because this is a one-time thing and she can’t find him cute  _now_ ) and he almost makes her wonder if he’s changed his mind, if maybe fucking her isn’t a good idea, or that maybe he doesn’t want her anymore, maybe he doesn’t like her like that and she’s been reading it all wrong…

“Swan. Hey,  _Swan_ ,” he pleads, grabbing her wrist before she can hook her thumbs into her underwear. “Are you sure?”

He looks different, looks kind and sincere and  _gentlemanly_  as his eyes silently ask if this is what she really wants (if it’s  _him_  she really wants) and she nods, releasing her wrist from his grasp and kneeling before him.

“Guess I’ll have to take these off myself then,” she murmurs seductively, and his eyebrows raise in disbelief before his head falls back on the cushions as her hands grip his thighs.

( _Swan, that was…_  he’d whispered against her lips.  _Take me home_ , she’d responded and he shook his head, protesting.  _No, Emma, you deserve more than that_. He meant it, and she knew it and it made her heart clench and her eyes water just a little, though she’d never admit it.  _I want that, just for one night. Please, Killian_ , she’d begged before she pulled back, seeing the hesitation in his eyes, sensing it in his body before the dark seduction took over his face.  _Come over here, Swan_.)

She pulls his jeans and boxer briefs off his hips tantalizingly slow, kissing each new inch of skin, ignoring where he’s hard and wanting.

He lifts his hips a little in silent plea and she grins deviously before climbing back into his lap and gripping him firmly. He moans, and it makes her skin tingle again, before she lowers herself to him, letting him fill her to the hilt (and god, does he fill her, fills her completely and it hasn’t even started and it’s already the best sex she’s ever had, and this is such a bad idea but he feels  _so good_ ).

“ _Emma_ ,” he pleads, hands gripping her hips, making her move ever so slowly above him. “Gods above,  _Emma_.”

Her hands grip his shoulders as she lifts herself completely, practically falling back onto him, making them both groan in pleasure. And then it’s a haze of skin slapping and hands wandering and mouths sucking and bruising and  _branding_  before the moment snaps and she’s coming, oh god she’s  _coming_  and it’s amazing and wonderful and downright  _hot_  as he tugs at her earlobe.

He flips her onto her back and pounds into her, desperately searching for his own release until he’s going stiff above her, his thrusts frantic and uneven as he spills into her, whispering something that sounds vaguely like  _love_  into her ear.

(He’d pushed her against the bar, shoving the shot glasses to the side, ignoring the crash of shattered glass on the floor. His hips grinded into hers as her hands scrambled his body for purchase, trying to grip onto  _anything_ as he turned her into the mush she’d been hoping for when she’d invited him to stay tonight. She just needed this, needed to know she was still wanted and good and not a damaged and used piece of  _crap_. Neal had made her this way, and seeing him this morning in the goddamn grocery store with his new wife and his happy freaking family had made her scream and cry until Ruby called, scolding her for being twenty minutes late to her shift. She remembered it was Saturday, knew he’d be there, knew he’d  _want_ this if she offered it.

And as much as she’d felt like crap thinking it the whole night, he’d felt  _so good_  against her.  _I live two blocks over_ , he’d moaned into her ear when she determinedly rolled her hips against his erection, and that was all the invitation she needed, taking his hand and hauling him towards the exit, turning the lights off and locking the doors and letting him lead the way.

One night, that’s all she needed. Just  _one night_.)

Their skin is sweat-slicked and her hair is a mess and he’s nuzzling into her neck affectionately, still lying on top of her when she finally feels it. The regret and the humiliation and god, she just used him. A guy who  _genuinely_ likes her and wants to get to know her and date her and she just  _used_  him.

He sits up, letting her do the same and she quickly scrambles for her clothes, picking them up and throwing them on in a chaotic mess of fear and guilt and stupidity.

She ignores his pleas, ignores the way his face looks so terribly confused after what was the best freaking sex _ever_ , ignores the catch in her voice when she says it.

“I just… I shouldn’t have done this. To  _you_. This was a  _mistake_.”

She doesn’t give him time to respond, just throws her boots on, grabs her jacket and heads for the door, letting herself out into the night. She marches home, intent on forgetting it, on forgetting  _him_  because she can’t do this, can’t do  _them_.

Emma Swan doesn’t do  _love_.


	4. not a trace of me would argue

It hurts. It hurts, it hurts, it  _hurts_.

And it shouldn’t. It really really  _shouldn’t_.

But she’s sitting here, two wine bottles in, red stains on the carpet from when she’d staggered into the kitchen to fetch a box of peanut butter cookies and another box of tissues, and she’s drunk as fuck, thinking about him above her and against her and  _inside_  her and it makes her heart clench with want and pain and self-loathing because while it was amazing and everything, she hurt him. And she hurt him  _bad_  in a way she never imagined she could.

She  _misses_  him, she realizes, as she munches on her cookies, surfs channels until she lands on a sappy Lifetime movie. She misses everything about him, his sea blue eyes and his wry smirk, his dashing smile and the crinkles around his eyes, his stupid dimples and his jaw full of stubble (and his sincerity and his gentle words and his passionate kisses and his greedy touch). She misses the sass in his voice and the snark on his tongue (and his _actual_  tongue, the way it felt against her skin, warm and soothing, coaxing her towards release).

God, she just  _misses_  Killian. And it sucks. Downright  _sucks_ because she’s the one who left this time, not the other way around. 

(He’d glanced at her once or twice, as if he was somewhat intrigued by her from across the bar, setting up with his band, shooting his gaze towards her, all heated and interested and  _god_  she felt like her skin was on fire and who the  _fuck_  did he think he was? She knew that  _look_ , the one that said  _come hither_  and spoke of dirty  _dirty_ things.

And on any other night, she would have said yes, would have enjoyed a romp in the sack with his type before she kicked him to the curb, leaving in the morning without so much as his name. But something in her gut said otherwise. Something in her gut said  _don’t run_. Something screamed  _stay_ , and that terrified her, so she looked away, minded the bar and pretended to not notice the way he still stared at her hours later, air headed brunette snug under his arm before he left the bar with said girl clinging to his hips.)

She sips her wine, staring at the blank, empty apartment as some chick whines on the television about falling in love and whether or not they’ll win some dance competition (god what is this dumb movie even about?) and she attempts to will the pain away, to make it feel less like a sharp punch to her gut or a crushing stab to her heart.

She wonders what he must feel like, what his thoughts of her are (awful, just absolutely awful, it  _has_  to be that after what she’d done), and it makes her feel worse, pouring more wine into her glass, filling it to the brim and drinking earnestly.

( _Are you going to serve me, love?_ , he’d asked, eyeing her up like she was the damn treasure and he was the insatiable pirate. She’d only rolled her eyes, making sure he  _definitely_ saw, knowing it was the third week he’d been here, and the third week he’d asked.  _No, you can’t drink while you’re playing. Bar rules_. He’d frowned before leaning over the bar counter, hovering close to her face.  _I promise I’ll make it worth your while, Swan,_  he’d whispered, a soft promise followed by a wink full of intent. She’d scoffed,  _No, you can wait, mate_.

The nickname, stated in his signature lilt, had rolled off her tongue far too quickly, making her turn slightly to the shelves of liquor in embarrassment, trying to hide the grimace on her face, knowing full well he’d seen her through the mirror behind the bottles.  _I can still see your face, love, and I think you quite enjoy my asking_ , he’d chuckled, and she’d made the mistake of looking up, making eye contact with him through the mirror and that damn dashing smile of his had dimples, freaking  _dimples_.

She’d turned in defeat, shoving a glass full of rum at him and he’d looked almost shocked, as if he wasn’t sure he could accept it.  _Drink it, and don’t say I served you_. She’d pretended to ignore his chuckle, and his quiet  _I knew you liked me_  as she moved to serve the next patron.)

He must hate her. He would have to. How could he  _not_? She used him, and while he knew that in the beginning, he must have thought she’d  _at least_ stay the night. That she’d  _at least_  wait until morning to run, to leave and break him and ruin it, like everything she touched.

And the alcohol hadn’t helped matters one bit. It only made it harder to say no to him, made his words burn her skin, his touch ignite flames deep in her belly, making her want him and need him, eventually letting him in only to push him away. She should have known the minute she asked him to stay, the second she placed that drink down on the counter and slugged back two or three more, that she would do something to fuck this up.

She’s Emma. That’s what she  _does_.

( _Swan,_  he’d pleaded in that stupid voice of his, a devious smirk toying at the corners of his lips.  _I told you already. No drinks while you’re performing_ , she’d responded, making her expression appear stern and demanding, knowing that her own smile was threatening to break free.

It was moments like these, when he was offering her his attention, when he was trying to make her smile, that she wondered what his angle was, why he was even bothering with her. She knew she gave severe  _fuck off_ vibes, and yet he was still trying  _something_.

 _But Swannnn, you gave me a glass last week_ , he’d begged, adorable pout on his lips, one that she should not be thinking is anything but annoying.  _No, Killian. I said no and that’s it. Bar rules_. He’d huffed, but something in her gut told her he wasn’t as bothered as he appeared.  _One-time thing, I suppose?_  His eyebrow proceeded to do this obscene wiggle thing she’d grown accustomed to, and she’d just rolled her eyes.

He was severely  ~~adorable~~  annoying, even if she poured a glass of rum and discreetly slid it over to his seat, making him smile with joy.)

She’s a  _bitch_. There’s no way around it. She’s an absolute  _bitch_. And he certainly deserves better than  _her_ , better than the mess of a girl that she’s become.

She’s pushing thirty, still single, with not so much as a date in the last three years (by choice, she reminds herself, because it’s easier this way, to be alone, to be just  _Emma_ , even if it’s lonely around 2 on a Saturday night when she’s wine-drunk perusing the internet, watching infomercials until she passes out on the couch).

She’s worked non-stop since Neal had left her for his secretary at work, who was conveniently pregnant with the little bundle of joy that should have been theirs instead. And she let her work take over every aspect of her life, ignoring the pleas from her friends to just  _come out_  and  _have a little fun_ , taking extra shifts at the bar, raking in tips every night and crashing around 3 in the morning.

She’s Emma. And she doesn’t get this happy ending the universe promises everyone else. She doesn’t get it because even if she had it, she wouldn’t know what to do with it. And even then, she’d probably fuck it up to the point of regret.

And that’s why she ran last night. Or at least, she thinks that’s why.

(It had been three months of this, of him bothering her during her shift before playing the  _same goddamn set_ as last week and she’d been lying if she said she’d contemplated applying to a new bar if only to get away from his irritating British self.

But after the band had played and the bar was busy with late night drinkers and band groupies, she’d spotted him in a dark corner of the bar, wrapped up in some leggy redhead, her hands wrapped around his neck while he’d practically devoured her with his mouth, his hands roaming down her backside, tugging her by her ass further into him.

Something deep inside her screamed jealously as she’d groaned at the almost explicit nature of his current conquest, wondering if he’d at least have the decency to take the poor girl home. And then he opened his eyes for a brief moment, catching Emma’s wandering glance as the redhead sloppily kissed down his jaw and began making a mark on his neck. He raised an eyebrow, as if he’d known exactly what she had been thinking, as if he’d wanted her to look, as if he’d wanted her to be  _jealous_.

 _What an ass_ , Emma had mumbled, loud enough for Ruby, a late shift waitress, to overhear, making her co-worker grin like the meddling wolf she was before she’d whispered into Emma’s ear,  _And what an ass it is._ )

Part of her wonders if she ran because of what Killian represents, someone who cares, who genuinely wants her, who wants to get to know her. But what would he see if he did? Would her scars scare him away? Would he run because she’s broken and used? Would he even remotely like her if he knew all the pain and heartbreak she’d been through? Would he leave too?

Everybody leaves. It’s the story of her life. Her parents left her at an orphanage when she was two days old. Her foster brother, the only person she could trust as a child, left when she was seven, running away with the other teenagers into the city, never to be seen again. Neal left when she couldn’t give him what he wanted, when she just wasn’t enough, when she proved to be unlovable.

So why would Killian be any different?

( _You alright, Swan?_  Killian had murmured, cornering her on her escape to the bathroom, and it was not so much the fact that he was blocking her than the use of her first name that made her stop and get caught up in the soft concern in his eyes.

And then the nausea hit again, the overwhelming anxiety because  _he_  was here, making her sick with whatever lingering hatred she’d felt for the man. He’d been sitting in the back booth for a good ten minutes before she’d noticed him, laughing with a group of his fantasy football buddies as if his life was just a bundle of good times and happy endings. She’d remembered every last one of his friends: Alex, his buddy from college, Jason, his co-worker at the firm, Owen, his old roommate and best friend, and she’d prayed she could escape before any of them recognized her.

 _I’m fine, Killian_ , she’d gritted out, biting her bottom lip to quell the tears threatening to spill.   _Now get out of my way_. She tried to push past him, but he grabbed her arms, keeping her in place, forcing her to look at him. _Where is he?_  he’d whispered, as if he knew without asking, as if he could just read her that easily. She’d shaken her head, but he squeezed her arms a little tighter in reassurance.  _Back booth, shaggy black hair. Name’s Neal_.

She’d waited twenty minutes in the bathroom, letting Ruby cover for her until she could compose herself enough to leave, finding out when she’d come back in that Killian had been kicked out for the night, the boss threatening to fire the entire band for his actions, the actions that apparently included beating the shit out of Neal and his friends singlehandedly in the alleyway before knocking her shitty excuse of an ex unconscious.)

Almost finished with her umpteenth glass of wine (she’s really lost count, what with binge drinking her entire apartment worth of the stuff, contemplating opening the half-empty bottle of tequila to continue her night of self-loathing at its finest), she wonders if she’ll ever be whole, if the ache will ever leave, if she’ll stop feeling like complete shit and start feeling like the deserving woman everyone constantly tells her she is.

The question gets lost in the inebriated haze of her mind, and she chugs the remnants of her glass, sliding into the comforting cushions of her couch and crying herself to sleep for the first time in a long time.

* * *

He misses her. Beyond misses her, he bloody  _pines_  for her, sits and practices only the sappy ballads sort of pines for her. And it  _hurts_. And he knows it  _shouldn’t_  have.

He knew going into that arrangement that she was only going to leave. It was a  _one-time thing_ , to quote himself, a way to let off some steam, to de-stress in the pleasure-filled haze of one another.

It wasn’t supposed to  _mean_  something. But to him, it meant  _everything_ , everything he wanted since the first day he met her, since the night he bounced into the bar to accept the Saturday gig and saw her berating a male customer for disliking her version of a  _goddamn coconut martini that a successful business should probably not be ordering if he’s trying to convince the hot chick to his right he’s not at all gay_ before snagging the man’s ill-fitting tip and shoving it into her back pocket with disgust.

And after that night, he vowed to meet her, to get to know her, all the while knowing he was  _falling_  for her and her stubborn sass and her sharp quips and her hard edges, knowing there was something else hidden behind that wall of indifference and annoyance towards anything that breathed.

And it wasn’t until she picked up on it, when his suave yet sometimes dorky come-ons had her laughing and smiling and practically doubling over in amusement that he realized she was  _it_. Of course it scared him, bloody _terrified_ him, but he couldn’t stop falling for her, even if he tried.

Slowly, the meaningless fucks he picked up at the bar died down, handing most off to Jefferson after a few minutes of flirting (practice for Swan, he reminded himself) and his sole focus was  _her_.

So his heart jumped (it near  _exploded_ ) when she told him to stay after her shift and his mind raced and leaped with thoughts of what to say and how to act and then she was pouring him whiskey shots and downing two before the glass could even touch his lips, making him all the more impressed and enamored with her.

And then she was with him and on top of him and against him and surrounding him and he let it slip, let the words tumble from his lips, his stupid  _stupid_ lips.

( _I love you_ , he’d groaned, all hoarse and filled with lust into the skin of her shoulder.  _I love you, Emma. Gods above, I love you_. He’d nuzzled into her neck, smelling the coconut ( _go figure_ ) scented perfume lingering on her skin, tasting it slowly with his tongue, coaxing himself down from his high as he held her close, wanting nothing more than to stay in this moment forever.

And then he’d realized it. He’d just bloody told her he’d loved her, on a night that was supposed to be a one-time thing. He’d prayed she hadn’t heard it, but her body went rigid when her orgasm wore off, a short gasp escaping her lips with the comprehension of his confession.

She’d leaped out of his arms almost immediately, as if on instinct rather than choice, frantically pacing his living room, looking for clothes and shucking them on as if the bloody house was on fire.

 _Emma, wait, I can explain_ , he’d pleaded, reaching out to grab her, but she’d only averted his touch.  _I just… I shouldn’t have done this. To you. This was a mistake._  And then she’d bolted, door slamming on her way out, leaving him to pick up the pieces of whatever he’d just shattered with his stupid  _stupid_  feelings.)

He knew he frightened her, knew he had to make amends tonight at the bar, trying desperately to think of what to say, trying to find a damn Hozier song that could relay the feelings of his carelessness and misjudgment of the situation, of overreaching the boundaries she set up.

“Hey Ruby,” he nods at the waitress, sliding up into the first open seat at the bar. “Swan here?”

Ruby looks tentatively at him, as if she’s about to tell him he’s dying or something. “Uh, she’s not.”

“Oh,” Killian hums, looking around to take in the night’s crowd. “Well, when will she be in?”

Ruby grimaces, and it takes everything for Killian’s stomach not to drop when he hears her next words. “Tuesday. She works Tuesdays now. And Wednesdays. Picked up the happy hour shifts for the remainder of the month.”

His lips part slightly, as if in disbelief (she was so clearly frightened by his words, she changed her shift, just so she didn’t have to  _see_  him, and he wonders how worthless he actually is to her) before the new bartender, another blonde apparently named Elsa, slides up to serve the bloke to his left and Ruby’s confession finally sinks in.

“Can you tell her something from me then?” he asks, waving at his fellow band members strolling in. “I suppose you’ll see her at some point, no?”

“Yeah, I had to pick up Wednesday nights to help with rent. I’ll probably catch her before she heads out.” Ruby proceeds to sigh. “What is it?”

He smiles weakly, averting his gaze from her before he says it, staring in awe at the bar counter, the same bloody counter he pushed her against before he took her home (stupid  _stupid_  decision, he reminds himself). “Tell her I miss her and I’m sorry.”

He gets up to walk away and head towards the stage to set up when he hears Ruby respond. “She misses you too, Killian.”

He stops for a moment, sighs long and heavy, shoulders sagging a little with the gesture, before he continues his way to the stage, and if the set is a little melancholy, and their regulars leave early and don’t stay after the show, and the cute pixie-haired blonde trying to flirt with him leaves his company for that of someone else because he’s definitely brooding, well, he doesn’t really care.

Not tonight.


End file.
